


Sometimes You Get So Lonely

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Arranged Marriage, Librarian Peter, M/M, Professional Thieves, Steter Week, The Hale Fire, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's nineteen when he's engaged to an infant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes You Get So Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of embarrassingly bad. I'm so sorry. 
> 
> Title's from the 1977 Bowie classic, "Be My Wife."

Peter was nineteen and away at university when the deal was made with the Stilinski’s. They were a valuable enough family and the name wasn't bad - but they were generally disadvantaged. The woman had been vaguely magic, the power untapped, as she'd been born the daughter of an emissary for a large pack back in Poland - and it was assumed her child would be as well. It didn't hurt that she and Talia were friends, and it similarly didn't hurt that Talia was uncertain what, exactly, to do with Peter, who was unmarried, unarranged, and only getting older. 

And, of course, while this alliance wasn't unimportant, Talia would never have dreamed of sacrificing her own offspring to the potentially magic human child of lower-middle class parents. 

The arrangement was relatively simple, with few strings. Peter and the child would be acclimated to each other, and the Stilinski's were allowed to frame this to their son or daughter however they wanted. At sixteen, the child would apprentice with Deaton. At eighteen, they and Peter would marry and the child would take over as the Pack's emissary, accepted fully into the Hale name. The details of the marriage itself would be worked out between the two of them. 

It was easy. It would be no problem to enforce and follow through with. And it was made entirely without Peter's knowledge or consent. 

He found out a few days after the child's birth, when he received a letter including the proper documents, already signed by Talia and one Claudia Stilinski, and a brief note further explaining his situation. 

There was an additional photo of a pink, squishy faced infant in white mittens and a polka dot hat and what Peter assumed to be some sort of unpronounceable word scrawled on the back as the only indication of his spouse-to-be's name. With the inclusion of the picture, he understood Talia either hated him or found this all incredibly hilarious. Either way, Peter felt his stomach sinking as he looked more at the picture of the stupid, small thing that was going to ruin his life.

* * *

Sometimes, when he was bored and felt particularly masochistic, he’d do the math in his head. By the time his child betrothed was eighteen, he'd be thirty-seven. He'd be over twice the boy's age. When they married, the boy would be in a similar position, a similar mindset, the people surrounding Peter currently, at parties, in class, were in. He shuddered to think of having to wed and bed some unknown, immature human.

He avoided coming home for holidays because Talia always promised that they'd make sure to have dinner with the Stilinski's. 

"The boy is a darling child - you'll love him." Her tone was so light, so certain, that he rejected the invitations subtly, saying he had too much work over the breaks, or was vacationing with friends, or meeting a girlfriend's parents. He suspected that Talia knew, but he didn't actually care.

However, after staying away for a whole year, Talia made it clear he was expected home that summer.

"Fine." Peter snapped. "But, I don't want to see the Stilinski brat." And see might have been the wrong word, because he was holding, periodically gazing at, a snapshot from a first birthday party, the babe held in his pretty mother's arms, his mouth open, eyes wide at the camera, fat legs kicking out. His tiny little hand was fisted in his mother's blouse. Sometimes it felt like too bizarre a sight to look away. 

Talia sighed. "You have to get to know him."

"Can he hold a conversation yet?" 

"He's one."

"Oh, well, then," Peter replied shortly. "I don't see how you expect me to get to know an _infant_." 

"Your wolf needs to get used to him. His scent."

"He'll smell like baby." Peter told her. "It's what babies do." 

Talia was quiet. "One dinner. Just one - for the parent's sake. They've been waiting to meet you too." 

Peter considered it, and then sighed in defeat. "Alright. But only the one time - and no one asks me to hold him."

"Deal." Talia said, and he hated how pleased she sounded. "It's gonna be fine, Peter. Just wait."

And, dinner was fine, if exceedingly uncomfortable. 

The woman was gracious enough and didn't force Peter into contact with her offspring, excluding one, light, "Peter, this is Przemyslaw." while carrying the soft, squirming thing in her arms, bracing his weight on her hip. He tucked his little face into her neck, seemingly shy.

"Yes." Peter said. "That would be him." 

Her deputy husband regarded him cautiously, eyes flashing to him throughout the entire event, no doubt waiting for him to show some cruelty or other such defect that would allow them to pull out of the agreement. Peter considered making up a story about how he used to torture animals as a child, but refrained, knowing Talia would be less than appreciative. He could always find a way to talk the kid out of it when he was older. 

At the end of the night, as the Stilinski's packed up their car, strapping the fussy, sleepy creature they'd brought with them into his seat, Peter turned to his sister.

"You do realize how awkward this is for me?" he asked. "That hasn't escaped you somehow, has it?"

Talia smiled at him. "Of course not. I'm very conscious to how uncomfortable you are."

"And do you know what that makes you?" Peter furthered, tone light.

"An asshole." Talia said, clasping him on the shoulder brightly and then heading upstairs to turn in for the night. Peter felt cheated. He'd had a much longer response for her. Asshole didn't even come close.

* * *

Peter got his degree in library science leisurely, in no rush to get home. Of course, he couldn't postpone forever and came back eventually.

He got a job quick enough, something official sounding. It was easy, if boring, work. He had a very loose schedule that allowed him to do whatever he wanted most days, like sleep in, or go out most nights, or bully his nieces and nephews in a way that would have made Talia proud if they hadn’t been her own children. The pay wasn't sublime, but he was already more than set there. He hadn't take the job for the money. It was just something to do to pass time, to feign normalcy. 

One Thursday, an hour or so before the children’s storytime, Peter was on desk, idly reading between patrons because it was a slow day and he had nothing else to be accountable for. Someone crept up to the front of the desk.

Peter glanced up to see a little, buzz-headed boy, sucking his thumb, looking at him intently. Peter looked away from him quickly, bored already. "Storytime's over there." He gestured vaguely at the children's section. "You're early." he added cooly. 

The stupid young thing stayed put so Peter had to sigh, putting his book aside and resting his elbows on the desk, looking at him again. Very carefully, he took in his huge brown eyes and spattered moles and the basetone of his scent, which was all distantly familiar.

The little boy seemed to be studying him. Peter took a guess.

"Przemyslaw?"

He smiled, _beamed_ in fact, thumb popping out of his mouth. "Yeah! You said my name right! No one ever says it right and so - so everyone - everyone just calls me Stiles." He took the last few steps between him and the desk, his fingers finding the edge and grasping on for some leverage. He leaned in, apparently wanting to see the man up closer. 

"Ah-ah-ah." Peter said. Stiles looked dumb and confused and Peter groped for his hand sanitizer. Generously, he squirt two globs into the palms of the boy's hands. Stiles looked up at him uselessly. Peter sighed again. "Go on. Rub them together." 

Stiles did with what would have been a fascinating amount of concentration if Peter gave a shit about children. The little thing grabbed at the counter again. 

"And where are your parents?"

"My dad's at work. My mom went to the store. She had to get groceries because I spilled my cereal this morning and then she had to use up the rest of the milk so I could have more. But she wasn't mad at me because she said accidents happen. What are you doing?" Stiles ended and Peter felt dread sinking in. He looked around for help, but everyone else was otherwise occupied.

"Working." he said, tersely. "I work here." 

"My dad's a police oscif - police officer. Sometimes he jokes about how we should invite you over to see his gun collection and Mom always says that's not funny."

"Your mother is right. It's not."

"Peter," Stiles said, "Why - How come I only see pictures of you?"

"Why would you see more of me?"

"'Cause we're gonna get married," Stiles beamed, and then, obviously shy, hid his face behind his hands, peeking back at him once.

A little thrown, Peter stared at him for a moment. "Not for a very long time."

Stiles's face fell and his feet shuffled. He looked up at him again. "You'r really pretty." Stiles told him and Peter nearly groaned. "Can I sit on your lap?”

"Absolutely not." Peter hissed.

"Oh." Stiles frowned, looking more confused than upset.

Claudia walked in, a gallon of milk and few assorted bags in hand. She didn't even have the decency to look apologetic. 

"Thanks for watching him Peter. He asks about you a lot." 

"Maybe you should talk about me less."Peter snapped. Claudia looked nonplussed.

"Kay, buddy. You ready to go home?" she asked the little boy. He nodded seriously. "What's wrong? Peter didn't say anything mean, did he?" She shot him a dissatisfied look. 

"No," the little thing pouted.

"Well," she said, looking back down at her son. "Say _Goodbye, Peter._ "

"Bye, Peter." Stiles repeated, flashing his giant eyes at him. He walked next to his mother, hand clutched on the edge of her dress.

* * *

Over the years, Peter only saw Stiles a handful of times. Once, notably, when the boy was seven and he snuck out of his mother's care, ending up at Peter's library, clutching the edge of the counter, gazing up at him with wonder and awe. Claudia had found him quickly enough, but it was more than a little awkward and the other clerks and shelfers and librarians teased him relentlessly about his tiny admirer. Peter was quite certain it was the worst thing that could possibly happened to him.

He was wrong.

He was in a coma for years after the fire. None of his Pack visited him after the first few months. Not once after that did he feel the pull of Pack, or any of the comfort that would have brought, as he lay unmoving, lost, faintly conscious.

That's not to say there were no slowly familiarized scents. He assumed they belonged to nurses and doctors. All bleached out smells, memorable and distinct but generally unpleasant. However, there was one nurse, he assumed, who smelled like warm cinnamon, something unknown enough to be foreign, but almost familiar. With that nurse came short visits, little squeezes of his hand, fingers smoothing back his hair, trailing over his cheek. He found it was the only thing he could latch on to in those long years. 

Waking up was a slow process. Overall, after it began, it took about a year. His wolf was howling for Pack and blood, and he wanted to destroy whoever had taken his family away, to build up his own - and the only thing that stopped him was that spice warm scent that had become so suddenly familiar that it calmed his wolf into a whining, needy pup. He became accustomed to the low, laughing, jerky rumble of incomprehensible speech that came with the scent. And, slowly, as he woke up, he started to understand.

"Scott was shocked she wanted him but, I mean, he works out like all the time, asthma or not, and I'm not _into_ him but he's built. He's fucking _built_ and - " "Working a lot - worried about college but I hit this place last Friday and I'm not - " "Supposed to be married this year. I'm not dwelling - I mean, it's not like _this_ is why I don't have a date for Prom or whatever. I’m just generally undateable, according to Lydia, who I think is actually starting to like me - " "Peter, if you'd just wake up - "

And that was the thing. The wolf inside Peter was _trying_ ; doubly so whenever the joking voice got serious, or said his name the way he liked, or laid a warm hand on his hand and squeezed.

It wasn't fair, then, that he opened his eyes thirty minutes after they had left. 

From there, the slow process had been relatively quick. Nurses and doctor's fluttered in and out and several assured him it might be quite a while before he walked on his own, if he ever did again. He astonished them all, getting out of his bed almost immediately, seemingly all together. He further astonished them by healing all of his scars in his sleep, which made the doctor's and nurses stop fluttering and just stare. The word miracle was thrown around several times. 

Peter didn't really have time for any of that. 

"Where's my family?" he asked his red haired nurse.

Jenny put a hand over her heart and looked at him with pity. Tentative she asked, "Do you remember the fire?" 

He felt his whole body turned to ice and he tried to keep from openly glaring at her. Of course he remembered the fire. He had nightmares about the fire. He couldn't stop thinking about the fire. Nevertheless, he said he did. 

Jenny looked apologetic. "I"m so sorry. I hate to be the one to tell you - They didn't make it." 

Peter looked at her evenly and nodded, thanking her for being upfront. Jenny smiled at him and left. Peter's wolf howled.

None of the doctor's or nurses that came in smelled right.

* * *

It turned out Jenny hadn't been telling the whole truth. Laura and Derek were alive, in New York, and he had absolutely no idea why. The hospital was able to reach them after a while. Laura was the Alpha now, and that had made his wolf want to snap at her, break her neck and bloody her throat. He refrained from sharing this desire, and didn't act on it when she came back to help him leave the hospital and find an apartment.

She seemed apologetic, and she promised to bring Derek out for a visit whenever they could make it, but she left after a week. Peter realized that, while they were still family, they no longer had that Pack bond. He felt this acutely, particularly when lying in bed at night, when he promised himself he'd only sleep a few hours and not a few years this time. 

He hadn't expected to get his job back - just as they hadn't expected him to come looking for it. As it was, there was an opportune opening and he was happy to fill it. He worked fewer hours, but he didn't mind. It was still easy, but what had once been pleasant, boring work was now the perfect amount to keep him occupied. It especially helped to focus on such menial tasks when everyone around was whispering about him. 

Peter quickly became the unfriendly librarian. His manager joked that all he needed was some wire-frame glasses and a lesson in shushing. Peter snort-laughed, and glared at two little old ladies, gossiping about his family by the foreign films. 

He was never loud about it, and he'd argue that he was never overtly rude - although the patrons would say differently. He did it softly, precisely, pointing out some whispered flaw akin to the ones they'd been chattering about in a hush across the room.

The tipping point was when some teenage boy referred to him as "the Burn Victim" to his equally young and impressed associate. The friend had replied that he "looked alright for a gimp." Peter was aware these boys, no older than fourteen, probably had no idea what they were saying. He couldn't have given less of a fuck about that.

He put his book down calmly and crossed the library, to the rock music selection where the boys were eyeing a Rammstein CD. He put a hand on the stack, towering over them, leaning in as they turned slowly and gaped.

Grinning down at them in the least friendly way, he, very softly, smoothly, conversationally, said, "When first presented with your conduct, I couldn't believe you were never taught proper library etiquette. However, I am now certain no one has ever explained this in terms you can understand, so let me. Pay attention. There is no," he said, pausing for emphasis, "Loud, disrespectful speech in the library. If I hear you shouting words like that again - "

"We weren't shouting." the first one countered.

"Weren't you?" Peter said, looking surprised. "But I heard you all the way from the librarian's desk. So you must have been shouting - or I must very good hearing. Either way, if you break my rules again, I will be forced to teach you respect in whatever way necessary for you to understand. And since words don’t seem to work so well..." The boys looked at him with varying levels of terror and incredulity. "Have either of you tried to make fist with just you thumb and pinkie?" he asked. They said nothing, looking confused. "It doesn't make for a good grip." 

And he walked back to his desk, only half taking in their panicked hearts and murmured, frenzied flight from the library.

Peter, feeling smug, thought that was all squared away, until he got a call from one of the boy's mothers. Or, rather, his manager got a call and seemed, overall, very unsurprised about the alleged exchange. 

"You can't keep picking fights with the patrons." she told him with a sigh after thoroughly apologizing to the mother. 

"I don't see it as picking a fight." Peter stated easily, and his manager sighed again.

After a moment, she said, "I get it. You're going through a lot right now. It's understandable." she paused again, then continued, "But I think maybe you should consider taking a week off."

Peter scoffed. "And do what? Go where?"

"Relax." she shrugged. “Cool down. My husband and I," she hesitated, "We've got a beach house. It's in a nice area, a lot of people have timeshares around there. I'd be happy to loan you the keys for a week. We hardly use it. Jerry keeps saying we should rent it out, but..." 

And Peter usually would have declined, possibly politely because his manager was generally inoffensive enough. He didn't really want any time to himself. But, he quite suddenly realized there was absolutely no reason to stay in Beacon HIills. Whatever he thought might be waiting for him - whatever slight inkling of _having_ someone or some reason to stick around - was bullshit. 

So, he thought, fuck it. 

"Alright. Where is it?"

* * *

The answer was, apparently, not far. A few hours drive to the coast, a bit North, and he was there. He'd brought his own booze, of course, but part of him felt so utterly depressed at the thought of drinking alone that he ended up leaving it in the car. He didn't regret this venture, exactly, but he knew even fewer people in this area. While he had no Pack in Beacon Hills, he had no one at all here. 

Unpacking into a spacious closet that was obviously meant for two people, he consoled himself by promising he'd try to seduce a rich neighbor and get in a fight with their spouse. That'd make him feel better.

He ate dinner by himself as usual, and then snuck out to the car for his booze, regretting his lapse of faith. Outside, he caught the scent of cinnamon and thought that everything might be okay after all. 

Comforted, drinking a little, he locked up for the night, flicking off the porch lights and curling up in the den in front of the TV. He watched a self-important nature documentary about sharks, and got a little drunker.

He was getting up for a refill in the kitchen when, over the hum of the television, he could hear a soft, clicking at the door. It sounded like someone was trying to pick the lock, so Peter stood still, waiting it out. 

A figure clad in dark clothes came in, shutting the door behind him quietly. He checked the den first, obviously thrown by the playing television. Peter waited, elbow resting on the counter, and took a sip of scotch. The intruder turned towards the kitchen and froze.

"Yes, this is awkward, isn't it?" Peter drawled, putting his sifter down. "I doubt you expected anyone to be home tonight."

Across the hall, the intruder was still unmoving, stuck, his mouth clearly open through the hole in his ski mask.

"What to do," Peter continued, taking a few steps forward, "I can see this going a few ways. Either you - " and he stopped himself, getting caught on the young man's now clear scent. He found himself gaping - which wasn't a personal favorite of his expressions. 

This was him. What he had thought was his sweet-smelling, low voiced nurse - although now, clearly, not a nurse at all. Peter took another step forward and felt suddenly surrounded by the closest thing to Pack scent he knew. 

The kid tore off his mask in a flurry of movement, throwing it to the ground. "Peter?" he choked out and if Peter had felt surprised before, he was absolutely shocked now. 

In front of him was some wicked, young thing, pretty in his youth. His short, dark hair was matted and messy from the mask, his mouth was pink and full, his eyes glowing light in the shadowed hall.

Peter finally understood. "Stiles?" He was clearly more surprised than the boy, who looked elated over being recognized so immediately. In two lurching steps, Stiles was in his space, his arms around his neck, holding him tight. He was taller than Peter now, and close up, Peter was surrounded by the scent he'd become accustomed to at the hospital and could now faintly remember from the boy's own infancy. 

"Oh my God," he rasped, "When I went to the hospital, Jenny told me you were _gone_. I'd heard you were okayer, but I kept getting turned away; so when she said you were gone," Stiles took a ragged inhale of breath. "Peter," he said again, "Peter, you're here."

"Yes, I - " He felt a little thrown by the proximity. It had been ages since anyone had touched him, and now he was being covered. It was a little overwhelming, but he managed out, "What are you doing here?"

Stiles pulled back finally, head ducked, a hand reaching up to rub at his eyes. Peter had a hard time comprehending why. He looked back up at the man, fine but sheepish. "I thought no one was home. I mean - wait, why are you here?" Stiles blinked. "This isn't your beach house. I know who owns this place. Oh my God - did you break in too?"

Peter rolled his eyes, and waved him off, setting his weight back as the boy was still situated so close to him. "My library manager is loaning it for the week. That doesn't explain why you're here." and, as a second thought, he added, "Trying to, apparently, burglarize this nice family's things." 

Grinning, Stiles looked down at his feet as if embarrassed. He peeked up. "I kind of got involved in this crime thing." 

"Crime thing?" Peter repeated, going for unimpressed and sounding more confused. "Like, the _mob?_ A _gang?_ "

"It's like," Stiles tried to explain. "Kind of like a mob? I just locate and liberate things they want from time to time. It's not like I'm _one_ of them. I'm a freelancer."

"A freelance catburglar." Peter tsked. "My, what would your father say? You want a drink?"

"I'm eighteen." Stiles said, and Peter shrugged, and Stiles let him pour one anyway and direct them towards the kitchen nook. "And no one's telling my dad. While he doesn't need the stress of having, you know, a criminal mastermind son, he _really_ doesn't need the crippling debt we’re close to facing and - Yeah. I gotta pitch in where I can. The least I can do is pay for all my college stuff myself. And, I figure, why waste my natural talents?" He looked pleased with himself and drank. Peter watched him, waiting for him to make a face about the scotch. He didn't, obviously well acquainted already.

"And, this is what your naturally talented at?"

Stiles shrugged. "When I started training with Deaton, since there wasn't really a Pack in the area, he taught me more practical things. Besides, I was invisible throughout all of high school. Only makes sense I could channel that into my work. And really, most of this job is research, and I'm all about research."

"Except for the small oversight that someone was home tonight." Peter pointed out. "I have to say, I'm not blown away by your skill."

Instead of looking offended, as Peter had been partially hoping for, Stiles just sort of smiled. It was a little shy, his cheeks tinged a sweet pink, like a schoolgirl. "Considering who was inside, I can't say I'm upset." He hesitated, looking more at Peter's hands clasped around the glass than at him, until his honeybrown eyes raised, his tongue wetting his lips, and he murmured, "I missed you."

Peter didn't understand where all this loyalty had come from. All he could think was _I'm thirty-seven and you're a child_ , because he so clearly was was. He had always been. Instead, he said, "You look so much like your mother."

Stiles face didn't just fall. It crashed. Shattered. His scent soured and Peter hadn't even noticed how much he'd been sampling and enjoying and even, although he wouldn't admit it, relaxing into it. It was obviously a topic for another time. 

"Forget I said anything. I'm sorry."

Stiles shook his head, a little overzealous. "No, it's fine," but he didn't further elaborate. They were quiet until Stiles said, "You wanna see what I came here for?" His scent was smoothing back to pleasant, his body unwinding into his chair.

Peter looked at him, feeling more at ease, and said, "I don't see any reason not to." 

"Great!" Stiles downed his drink and sprung up. Before Peter could stop it, his hand was snatched up and he was being yanked to his feet, pulled along behind the boy. 

Stiles lead him to the bedroom and came to stand in front of a painting.

"Girl at Mirror?" Peter asked incredulously. He surveyed the painting closer. "You came here to steal a knockoff Rockwell? Who on earth do you work for?" Stiles rolled his eyes and pulled the painting off the wall, revealing a safe. "Oh."

And Stiles got to work, cracking the safe with a stethoscope and a steady grip. Peter could hear the clicks of the lock, but figured Stiles probably wanted to show off. "I didn't know you could actually do this outside of heist movies."

'Cheap safe." Stiles shot back, an then a, "Now, shh, dear, I'm working." Peter was uncomfortable with the little, embarrassing flare of warmth that shot through him at the familiarity. "A-ha!" and the safe swung open.

There was some cash in there, and a few more personal looking books and documents. Stiles rummaged through all of that until he found a small, velvet box in the back and pulled it out. He looked so pleased with everything, one finger curling and tracing along the seam of the box, obviously aching to show the man the contents. He seemed to be waiting for the word.

"Well," Peter urged, "What is it?" 

Stiles opened the box to reveal an antique, golden locket. The locket itself was pretty, ornate. It looked expensive and heavy. The boy fumbled with the latch to show Peter the inside, where an unbelievably detailed portrait of a young woman seated, her red hair half up, half cascading over her shoulder. He looked at Peter, and then down at he locket in his hands, and then back at Peter's face.

"Do you know what this is?"

"I can't say I do."

"There are only seven known lockets like this." Stiles said, flicking it closed and the turning it around to show its back. There was the tiny, faint outline of an F.D. "In the mid-1800s, a Spanish immigrant, Fernando Damsio - that's his signature right here," he said, a long finger tracing over the letters, "He was commissioned to make this for a wealthy patron’s fiancé. The patron was initially displeased with the entire thing, but the fiancé loved it. She hadn't thought an artist could possibly get so much detail onto such a small canvas. 

"So, when the wealthy patron died on their wedding night - which is a story in itself but doesn't have anything to do with the lockets - the lady commissioned Damsio to create another locket, instead with a picture of a close friend of her's. Her friend, in turn, paid him to create another, more intricate locket, with the lady's picture.

"This went on for years - and, in total, eight lockets were made. There's some speculation that they were lovers - not Damsio and the lady, but the lady and her friend. Apparently, there's one locket where her friend's naked, but no one's seen that one for years, so it'll be interesting to see if that's right. 

"Damsio never really was recognized for his skill, and he did a handful of other mediocre paintings at the time that kept him from dying poor. But, my employer's girlfriend is graduating next year with an MA in Art History, and so it was kind of just decided this was the perfect gift." He fell silent, eyes still focused on the locket. 

"It's very lovely." Peter allowed. "Don't you think it's disappearance will be noticed?"

"Uh-huh!" Stiles nodded, back to full energy. He put the locket back in the velvet box carefully, then rifled through his side satchel. "That's why I brought this," and he pulled out a near identical box, peeking it open so Peter could see a flash of gold. "Just an easy switcherooni. When they notice, _if_ they notice, they won't know when it got replaced. So, don't worry, I doubt you'll get blamed for this one." and he winked.

Peter scoffed, brushing off how much he might have liked the gesture. "Well, it is rather hard to plan out detailed criminal activity when you're in a coma." 

Stiles beamed, and stashed the real Damsio locket in his bag. After a moment, he said, "I'm really glad you're back. I was gonna wait another year for you - but I was so worried I'd have to move on."

Which struck Peter as an odd thing to say. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Our arrangement?" Stiles reminded him easily. "Don't tell me you forgot. We're supposed to get married this year."

Peter was pretty sure all of the blood left his head, and, heart thudding frantically all of a sudden, he choked, "We aren't obligated anymore. I mean, with everyone gone, no one will care - "

"I care." Stiles cut him off, frowning deeply. "You're supposed to be my husband. That's just how it's supposed to be."

"I don't think - "

"We can go slow." Stiles quickly relented. " I get we never really had the time to get to know each other, but... I don't know, Peter. There's not a lot of us left. Don't you think we should stay together? Make a new family?"

Which was all Peter wanted at the moment, though he'd never say so.

Stiles looked sly as he said, "I'm going to the east coast for summer break. There are two other lockets there that I know about. You could - We could go together? If you wanted, you could help me."

"I doubt your father would like that. Sending his young son off, unchaperoned with his predatory, no good betrothed." 

The boy shrugged. "Dad knows we have to at least try to keep up the contract."

Peter looked at Stiles for a very long time. He looked and looked and saw a handsome young man who was the most familiar smelling person in the state. He only saw faint traces of a child, gripping the edge of a librarian's desk, waiting for his mother. He saw someone he could get to know. 

"Alright." Peter said.

Stiles stepped closer. He reached up to cup Peter's jaw, and it seemed like they might kiss. Instead, Stiles's thumb trailed the expanse of Peter's lower lip softly, and Peter hadn't remembered what this sort of thing felt like. He grabbed Stiles's wrist to stop him before it became too much. The boy just grinned.

"Good."

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading. Hope this was okay. Take care!
> 
> Shameless tumblr plug: [My Blog](http://gigglesnortbangdead.tumblr.com/)


End file.
